Grit under my eyelids.The man I divorcedcalls. My son hangs up on me.The tulips will be under snowall winter. I wish,blowing dandelion seeds.My fingers taste bitter. Next poem Anitra's Sampler Menu
Grit under my eyelids.The man I divorcedcalls. My son hangs up on me.The tulips will be under snowall winter. I wish,blowing dandelion seeds.My fingers taste bitter.
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